


Warmth

by voxangelus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Linguist!John, M/M, Mycroft has a language kink, pretty tame but for some sweary bits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxangelus/pseuds/voxangelus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft asks for a translation and gets more than he expected in return. It's a pleasant surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeliciaHM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeliciaHM/gifts).



> The lion's share of this fic (which is very much overdue) was written during Antidiogenes Club writing weekends over the last few months.
> 
> It is an auction fill for FeliciaHM who wanted Johncroft language kink. Felicia, I hope this suffices :) 
> 
> Interrosand provided the French translation and JunoMagic the German. I am unendingly grateful for their help!

"Brother dear. To what do I owe the inestimable pleasure of your call?” 

“Have you finished those audio files for me yet, Sherlock?” Mycroft wasn’t even sure why he was bothering to call and ask – he’d only dropped the jump drive off the day before – but he supposed he was feeling a bit lonesome, and brotherly banter and veiled insults were marginally better than solitary silence. 

“No, Lestrade had a case for me. I put my best man on them. Why don’t you interrogate him and stop bothering me?” Sherlock replied in a petulant tone. 

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock, every one of the conversations in those files is in Dari. Does John even understand it?” 

“He’s got quite the gift for languages; John does, he’s almost as gifted as you. Of course Dari is among them, as well as Pashto – he did spend a considerable amount of time in Afghanistan,” Sherlock retorted. “Now stop bothering me, I’m trying to solve a triple homicide.”

Mycroft was glad Sherlock could no longer physically slam a handset into a cradle to hang up the phone, but he imagined his brother bashed the ‘end call’ button with the same force. Of course Sherlock would hand over important, secure files to someone without the proper clearances just to save himself some trouble. And John, a linguist? That _was_ a surprise, and one that moved the already estimable doctor up in his eyes. 

Mycroft turned his mobile over and over in his hands, thinking. He had a bit of a thing (a kink, his mind unhelpfully supplied) for languages, likely stemming from his abject adoration of the classics tutor he had when he was twelve. Theodore had been almost twenty, incredibly handsome, and had the most glorious voice and excellent pronunciation. He’d taught Mycroft Latin, Middle English, and Greek over a summer, furthering what Mycroft had been able to study at his school. Mycroft had harboured quite a hopeless crush – only encouraged along by the pronunciation tapes Theo had made for him. Theo’s parting gift at the end of the summer was a record of Sir John Richardson narrating The Canterbury Tales. Mycroft eventually had the tapes and the record converted to digital media when such things became available, and not even his embarrassment when Sherlock caught him wanking to one of the tapes one holiday break from Cambridge had managed to cool his ardour. 

He shook his head, clearing away his musings, and called his assistant in to begin working on John’s security clearance. 

 

“Was that Mycroft?” John asked, as Sherlock tossed his phone onto the sofa, then flumped down at the opposite end. 

“Yes. Asking about his precious audio files, the ones I gave you to deal with.” 

John scoffed. “Oh, ta very much for the challenge, by the way. My Dari’s a bit rusty after two years home. Do I even have clearance for this? There’s some pretty sensitive information. Don’t they have their own language specialists in MI-5 or whatever it is that Mycroft’s all tied up with?”

Sherlock gave absolutely no indication he’d heard a word John had said. “Locked room, no signs of forced entry. No signs of poison in the victims,” he muttered, leaping up and pacing back and forth in front of the sitting room windows. 

“Right. Bugger all this for a lark,” John grumbled, “I’ll just get back to those files, shall I?” He turned and made his way up the stairs, cursing Sherlock and his tendency to pass off Mycroft’s requests in every language he knew. It was a fair few. He’d learned Scots Gaelic at his maternal gran’s knee, then how to read Middle English from his dad in retaliation. At school he’d done both Latin and French because they were interesting. They had proved good choices. Latin came in handy when he was studying medicine and French seemed to be particularly impressive for wooing romantic partners. The Dari had come into play when he was reading medicine – his roommate was of Afghani descent and had gladly taught him a few useful phrases, then introduced John to his pretty sister, who had been _far_ more encouraging, inviting him round for tea and practice on Saturdays. Once he’d joined the Army, he had been grateful for those Saturday lessons. From there, it’d been easy enough to pick up a smattering of Pashto, and his Arabic was coming along nicely, thanks to a program on the computer. Still, swearing was the most fun in French, and John was liberal with his usage as he tromped up the stairs.

"Abruti snob et paresseux ! Qui se croit plus intelligent que tout le monde. Pas foutu de faire autre chose que d’aller traîner sur des scènes de crimes ou de rendre cinglés les habitants du Grand Londres. Non, oh grands dieux non ! Il préfère de loin me refiler la partie chiante du travail, sans même s’assurer que j’y sois habilité. Ce qui risque évidement de provoquer un incident diplomatique, mais ça il n’en a rien à faire ! Probablement trop occupé à s’astiquer le manche avec le crâne pour faire quoi que ce soit de vraiment utile. Bordel de merde !" 

Sherlock’s voice floated up from the sitting room, scandalized. “I have _never_ done that with the skull!” 

 

‘God Save the Queen’ blaring from his mobile was not John’s idea of a proper wake-up call for a lazy Saturday morning, but he scrabbled around in the semidarkness for his mobile, managing to answer before Mycroft hung up. 

“H’lo?” he muttered. 

“Oh dear, did I wake you?” Mycroft didn’t sound the least bit concerned. John could almost _hear_ the smirk on his face. 

“You did, but I’ll get over it,” John replied with a great, cracking yawn, stretching the arm not holding his phone up over his head. 

“I’m terribly sorry. Have you finished with those recordings yet?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. Just a few hours ago. Are you sending someone over to pick them up?” John asked, wishing Mycroft would just say why the hell he was calling so he could get back to sleep. 

Mycroft chuckled. John could have said it was a warm sort of sound, but he wasn’t sure the British Government was capable of such a thing. 

“No. I thought I might treat you to lunch as a thank you. I realize Sherlock passed this off on you without so much as a by-your-leave, and I do so appreciate your assistance,” the other man said smoothly. 

Oh, now _that_ was interesting. “Lunch? Yeah, all right then. When and where?” 

“There’s a little French bistro I’m fond of, if that suits you. I thought around two? I’ll come by for you.”

John glanced at his alarm clock. It had just gone eight. “Sounds good. See you then, Mycroft.” 

“Until then, John.” 

He set his alarm for noon, tossed the phone back onto the side table, and was snoring again in minutes, the duvet pulled over his head. 

After his alarm went off, he meandered downstairs in his dressing gown for a cuppa and some toast, mumbling a sleepy greeting to Sherlock. 

“I’ll have a cup of tea,” Sherlock responded, not even glancing up from his laptop. 

“And good morning to you, John. Pleasant day we’re having. Yes, I’d love a cup of tea if you’re putting the kettle on, thanks ever so.” John muttered, although he knew Sherlock wouldn’t pay a bit of attention. 

Once the tea was made, he sat a cup at Sherlock’s elbow, sitting down across from him with his own tea and toast. “I’m going out for lunch,” he mentioned. 

“Mm. Give Mycroft my regards, won’t you? Is he taking you somewhere obnoxious?”

“You’re not going, so how obnoxious can it possibly be?” John replied mildly, arching an eyebrow at Sherlock over his teacup. “I don’t know, he said some French bistro he likes.” 

“Likely somewhere utterly pretentious – and that is obnoxious. I take it you’ve finished the translations, then?” Sherlock asked, looking up from the computer. 

“Just last night, yeah. Is he trying to show me up, do you think? Assuming I don’t speak French or won’t appreciate the menu?”

Sherlock snorted, setting the laptop aside and taking up his tea. “No, I’m sure he knows, especially if you have GCSE and A-levels in French, which I’m sure you do. Mycroft never assumes anything except his own superiority.”

John thought on that for a while as he drank his tea and ate his toast and jam, mind wandering. 

“Bit intimate for a business lunch, taking you to a little bistro,” Sherlock mentioned, a few moments later. 

Frowning, John shook his head. “He said it was to thank me for doing your dirty work, so it’s not strictly business is it? Should be you buying me lunch, as a matter of fact.” 

“I bought you a curry last night!” protested Sherlock. 

Laughing, John took his plate and mug to the sink. “So you did. I’m getting in the shower.”

 

In spite of being slightly creeped-out by a perfectly timed text from Mycroft regarding sartorial choices as he stood in front of his closet, John managed to be ready by the time he heard Sherlock greet Mycroft down in the sitting room and Mycroft’s answering tones. With shoes in hand and the thumb drive with the files on it in pocket, he headed down the stairs, stopping halfway down when he heard heated conversation below.

“... du kannst John nicht haben, Mycroft."

"Warum in aller Welt sprichst du jetzt Deutsch? Ah. John spricht kein Deutsch. Er ist nicht dein Eigentum, Sherlock." 

"Er ist mein Freund. Ich will nicht, dass du ihn mir wegnimmst!"

"Jetzt benimmst du dich wie ein Kind. Ich nehme dir John nicht weg, ich gehe nur mit ihm mittagessen, um Himmels willen!"

John had never more regretted his neglect of German - but it was pretty clear they were arguing about him. Over him? He was certainly the subject of the conversation, in any case.

“Fucking Holmeses,” he muttered, tromping loudly down the stairs. “Just going to put my shoes on, Mycroft, and then I’ll be ready,” he announced, as he stepped through the door to the sitting room.

"Er spricht vielleicht kein Deutsch, aber er ist nicht dumm, Mycroft,"

Mycroft didn’t say another word, merely waited for John to lace up his shoes so they could depart. 

“Right, then. Sherlock, don’t burn the flat down while I’m gone,” John said cheerily, hauling himself up from his chair. He gestured to Mycroft to proceed him out the door. 

“Afternoon, Sherlock. I shall return him in one piece, never fear.

"Guten abend," Sherlock said irritably, flopping down on the sofa in a flurry of dressing gown and pique. 

Mycroft merely smirked and followed John down the stairs, resisting the urge to put his hand in the small of the other man's back. ‘Not a date,’ he reminded himself - not yet, at least. There was certainly no guarantee that John was even interested, but that was the point of this little excursion, to gauge the good doctor’s interest. 

The driver stood at the kerb, ready to open the door of the sleek, black car for them as they approached. Mycroft allowed John to slide in first, then got in after him. The driver closed the door behind him and then they were off. Mycroft had allowed plenty of time for London's Saturday afternoon traffic, but the drive was pleasant and they only got into congestion around Piccadilly Circus, arriving at the restaurant with plenty of time to spare before their reservation. John suggested they take a stroll up and down the nearby street and peek into some shop windows. Mycroft would have, on the whole, preferred to find a nice bench somewhere to sit down, but he readily agreed to John's proposal. They passed a chocolatier's shop, and John grinned. 

"Remind me that I want to stop in there before you take me back to Baker street," he mentioned to Mycroft. "I should probably get Sherlock a peace offering, not that he deserves it for acting the stroppy toddler." 

Mycroft laughed, outright laughed, at John's comment. "Just imagine how much more tractable he'll be with a bar of good milk chocolate or a few truffles in him, though. It always worked wonders when we were children." 

"Hmmm, I suppose you're right. Did you know it surprised me when I first learned he liked overly sweet milk chocolate as opposed to dark? But never mind, we aren't going to talk about Sherlock any more this afternoon," John asserted. "Shall we head back now? It's almost time for our reservation." 

Mycroft nodded, quite pleased that John had made the decision to not speak of his brother any more that afternoon. "Of course. I do hope you are hungry, as their food is delicious." 

The bistro was, like the chocolatier's, French - but not pretentious in the least. John easily fell into conversation with the Matire'd in fluent French, leaving Mycroft to wonder just how many languages did the man speak, for heaven's sake? He was just an army doctor with a perfectly usual upbringing from the outskirts of London. Deep in thought, Mycroft hardly noticed as they were seated and menus placed into their hands.

"Mycroft, is everything all right?" John asked, a bit concerned over the other man's uncharacteristic inattention.

Mycroft shook his head, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Fine, everything is fine. I just hadn't expected you to be fluent in French." 

John raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t in the vast dossier you undoubtedly have on me? I took both GSCE and an A-level - I learned it at school, mostly to impress well, romantic interests - it comes in handy, so I kept up with speaking it.” 

“I hardly expected your secondary schooling to be of import, so I glossed over it. French, Pashto, Dari,” Mycroft listed, ticking each off on his fingers. “How many more languages _do_ you speak, Dr Watson?” 

“I suppose you’ll just have to wait and find out, Mr Holmes,” John replied, turning his attention to his menu, which he scanned briefly before looking back up at Mycroft. “Anything you recommend in particular?” 

“Steak frites with the house blue cheese sauce. I have not had better outside of Paris.”

Grinning, John set the menu down. “Sold.” 

 

After they had both chased the last remnants of sauce from their plates with stray frites, they sat chatting over the cheese plate and the last dregs of their bottle of wine. Mycroft had managed to relax enough to allow his sardonic wit to come to the forefront, and John parried every comment with his own brand of cheerfully irreverent banter. Neither noticed the afternoon slipping away until the waiter came by and very apologetically asked if they were quite finished, as it was almost five, and time to reset for the dinner service. 

After a quick detour to the chocolate shop, they clambered back into the car. John sighed in contentment, leaning back against the comfortable leather cushions of the seat. “I don’t know when I’ve had such fun just sitting around a table and talking,” he said, glancing over at Mycroft. “Thanks.” 

“Truly, it is my pleasure,” Mycroft replied, inclining his head in a nod. “I so rarely have such stimulating company.” 

John smiled, then turned his head to watch the city go by outside the window for a moment. Mycroft didn’t mind, as the silence in the car was comfortable - perhaps even friendly. After a few moments, as the car drew ever closer to Baker Street, Mycroft calculated the risk of inquiring after an actual date as minimal. John would either accept, or decline politely without histrionics.

“Would you be amenable to doing this again? Perhaps one evening later in the week?” 

Turning away from the window, John raised an eyebrow, an amused grin playing about his lips. “Mycroft Holmes, are you asking me on a date?” 

“That was my intention, yes,” he affirmed.

“I think I’d really like that, especially after today,” said John, with a decisive nod of his head. “Let me know your schedule and I’ll make sure Sherlock doesn’t drag me out on a case that night, yeah?” 

“I don’t think he’s going to approve,” Mycroft muttered. 

“Isn’t his business, is it?” John asked, reaching for Mycroft’s hand and taking it between his own. “I’m not going to say I don’t care about his opinion - I do, he’s my best friend - but the entire concept of romance is pretty much lost on him. So long as he feels secure that our friendship won’t change, I think he’ll come around. Eventually.” 

A feeling of warmth blossomed in Mycroft’s chest as the other man held his hand and spoke, warmth borne of quickly-blooming affection for the caring, considerate soul that was John Watson.


End file.
